It's as if she's slain the sun. 



It slides down the sky, blood-red,



  sending its dying light over the blade of her sword.











Her hands are moving too quickly for me to follow,



  stained with the sunset, 



  stained with a thousand battles, 



  stained beneath the skin, by her pain and by her penance.











I know those hands.











I have seen them hold back death and bring life into the world.



I have seen them both shield and destroy.



I have felt them warm on my body, in healing and in love,



  those strong fingers by turns firm and gentle,



until I twist beneath her, shaking and crying out into the night.











The sunset winks at me, reflecting off her blade,



  as if it knows.